The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Arry]

Andwise leaned against Ferdy as he stumbled down the steps of the Inn. His foot caught on the edge of the last one as he stepped down to the graveled path, nearly sending him sprawling. Gil and Ferdy struggled to keep him upright as they maneuvered him to the cart Tomlin had brought round.

‘Here! Give us a hand,’ called Gil, motioning for Tomlin to reach down for the inebriated Hobbit. A bit of tugging from one with a great deal of pushing from the other two and Andwise was deposited in the seat, held up right by Tomlin until Ferdy climbed up to provide support.

His foot, in fact, was on the little step-up when Andwise, in a moment of soon passing clarity, opened one eye. Gazing at the Inn and then down at his son, he pushed Ferdy back, waving him away from the cart with a wobbly motion of his hand. ‘Nay laddie,’ Andwise managed, pulling himself upright in the seat. He pointed his tremulous finger at Gil standing next to his son. ‘Let yer friends here get the old man home.’ He cast a bloodshot eye at Tomlin and Gil, grinning as he did so. ‘Ye won’ mind, will ya laddies?’

‘Of course not!’ they both chimed, wanting to be helpful. ‘But Da,’ began Andwise.

‘Nay . . . nay . . . there’s someone waitin ta hear from ya, now. I’n’t there? The lads’ll get me home fine.’ He waved Ferdy back to the Inn. ‘G’wan now!’

Andwise’s voice trailed off. He was wedged in now between Gil and Tomlin, head resting against Gil’s shoulder, snoring faintly. Tomlin leaned across him and spoke to Ferdy. ‘We’ve got him. Don’t worry, both of us have had to put our Da’s to bed after a night or two of tipping the cup.’ He flicked the reins against the pony’s hindquarters. ‘Hurry,’ Gill called back to Ferdy as the cart rolled down the path. ‘You don’t want Cook handling your business, now do you?’

[Maeggaladiel]

Eleniel shook herself, feeling as though she had been lost in thought for a very long time.

"Hostile trees?" she echoed. "You mean the legends of Fangorn Forest are true? I had thought them to be but children's tales." She smiled to herself, shaking her head in wonder.

"See?" she said. "You can travel the land all you want, and there will still be something left to learn."

[Lalwendë]

The horse and rider came to a halt as they neared the inn. The horse was snorting and sweating heavily, and the rider was not in a much better condition. He had been riding hard all day with only the briefest of halts, and those only taken to allow both himself and the horse a few minutes to catch their breath. The rain which was now falling was welcome to him, and he had pushed back his hood to better appreciate the cool raindrops.

The evening was closing in early due to the rain, and he had seen the lights being lit up ahead. Though he had a good idea of where he needed to get to, he had stopped to ask a passing Hobbit all the same. He did not want to make a mistake and come to the wrong Inn, not after riding all day on this errand. To him, it was a matter of urgency that he get to the Inn as soon as possible, and to that end he had saddled up his best horse.

Pegram’s keen eyes were alert for a suitable place to dismount and tie the horse up. He hoped for a stable of some kind, for the stallion had been an expensive purchase and he did not want to lose him to some scoundrel horse thief. It was the kind of horse which made other men look on in envy, the horse he had yearned for most of his life and finally had been able to buy a few years ago. It was a young man’s steed, but one which few young men would be able to afford. He cared for the stallion well and the creature’s coat shone when Pegram took him out for a ride; when he crossed paths with another man on such a steed, knowing, appraising glances were exchanged.

He was relieved when he saw a stable, but the place was in near darkness and unattended. Leading the horse in, he looked for a secure corner and fastened the reigns to a beam with an intricate knot before casting around for a bucket of water and bale of hay. He gave the horse a quick wipe down with a soft cloth, as he always did, no matter the urgency of his business, and straightening his clothes, went out towards the door of the Inn itself.

Pegram was a man of middle age, prosperous, and stout with good living. He was not overly tall, but he was well built and vigorous in his movements. He had a head of thick, rich brown hair, and a full beard. His clothes were simple but betrayed a knowledge of his taste for the finer things in life. His smock shirt was of white linen, cut to fit his frame exactly, and his breeches were made of fine green moleskin. Pegram wore a matching green cloak, cut from a textured wool, and a pair of sturdy but delicately stitched gloves fashioned from brown doeskin. He carried a knife for a weapon, concealed with a pouch of money on his belt. The weapon had never been used, and it was primarily to protect his money that he kept it, but, as he often said to himself, “Let them come, let them try to get it from my hands“.

The early evening light of the inn shone through the windows and within he could see a hearty crowd, a scene he particularly liked, but then he checked himself, remembering that these were strangers. The smell of the good beer hit him and he breathed it in appreciatively, as it were a fine scent. And fine perfume this was to Pegram, for he was a distiller by trade.

He pushed the door open smoothly, and drew himself up to his full height, his chin proudly thrust forwards. He looked about the crowded room with the air of a man experienced in the ways of public houses, taking in the different groups of people, and not least of all, the bar itself. Allowing himself a few moments to look upon the pumps and barrels with genuine interest, he returned to searching the room. He noted that it was filled with all manner of folk, men and Elves alongside the Hobbits he had expected, and then saw the very person he had come here for. His light eyes darkened, and a growl almost came from his throat, and he strode purposefully over.

***

When she saw Andwise being bundled hastily away from the table, Jinniver knew that he had made a mistake in mentioning this Shivaree. But she quickly realised what this was all about, and though she had been ready to hear a good ghost story, she found herself laughing at the truth of the matter. She could well imagine the commotion that was going to happen after Derufin and Zimzi’s wedding, not least because of the high spirited hobbit lads. She hoped she would be invited to stay fro the event, once her work was done.

Thoughts of the task she still had ahead of her made her quiet for a moment. Her brow creased as a brief worry entered her mind. What if the plants did not arrive in the morning? How was she to make a garden without them? If they were late, then she would have to work quickly, but what if they did not come at all? She caught her breath in a moment of panic, and reached for the jug of stout again.

“Best not think of that”, Jinniver muttered to herself, taking a gulp of the dark, heady brew. She took up her pipe with haste and as she puffed out a smoke ring, began to feel herself relax once again. The sound of Andwise shouting outside, as the lads attempted to get him home in one piece, drifted in through the windows and she tried to stifle a giggle. She took another long drink, and decided to fill her tankard once more. This was a good ale, and she had started to get a taste for it. She didn’t stop to think how drunk it had made Andwise.

Jinniver’s eyes were a little clouded as the drink took hold on her quickly, and she found herself feeling hot, but extremely content. She laughed aloud as she heard what Cook threatened to do. And then she felt cold as a firm hand was placed on her shoulder and a gruff voice said “Jinniver!” meaningfully into her ear.

[Tevildo]

Rain, rain, rain!

How Tevildo hated rain! The water dripped dully from the branches of the trees that lined the pathway leading to the Inn. He had slunk off earlier that day and left his two-legged companion trudging along behind him on the same road. He expected the two-legged to arrive a bit later, tired and thoroughly bedraggled. Ah, well, let the dunderhead get wet if he could not figure out that rain was threatening, and he'd better hurry up to make it to Bywater before the deluge occurred.

Tevildo's opinion of the two-leggeds was generally low, and today was no exception. He barely tolerated the fellow who claimed to be his "owner". As if any cat could have an "owner"! What a ridiculous notion.

If truth be told, Tevildo felt he had not had a master worthy of the name, since that distant day when he had been in charge of securing the meat for Melko's table. That had been seven or eight lives ago. Tevildo could not remember exactly when, but it had been a golden age when he had lorded it over the other cats. Now the best he could manage was to terrorize a mouse or two in the corrdidors of a dusty Inn in the middle of the place that men called The Shire.

Tevildo did not like Hobbits, any more than he liked Elves or Men. But at least Hobbits had large barns and storage bins filled with grain and other foodstuffs. And where there was food, he was likely to find a fat rat or two.

In the distance, he could see the outline of the Green Dragon looming. He observed that another traveller had just arrived and dismounted from his horse, continuing up the steps and entering the Inn. Tevildo waited for just the right moment when the door was left slightly ajar, and then hurried inside, scrambling adroitly between the legs of the man who looked to be the clumsy type, so common among the two-leggeds.

Tevildo purred with joy to be out of the rain and rubbed his shoulder repeatedly against the wooden leg of one of the tables. Absolutely no one seemed to be paying attention to him. His feelings about that were somewhat mixed. Undetected, he could get away with considerable mischief. Yet, at the same time, he felt irked that someone with his distinguished history should go so totally unheralded in such a public place. He peered around the room looking for the Innkeeper or someone else who worked here. His belly was growling furiously. He hoped to be able to persuade the staff to give him a job. He was no tame pet interested in a bowl of milk, but he would not mind killing a rat or two and watching guard over the hen's eggs in the stables in exchange for a dinner of fish and chicken.

He was not sure how he would get this idea over to the staff at the Dragon,since his ability to communicate was limited. In the old days, he had spoken freely with men, espcially with that milksop Beren. But things had changed with the passing of years, and men's ears had seemingly become so plugged that they could no longer understand his speech. Only the Elves, with their ability to exchange thoughts, could fully understood what he said.

Padding forward on dainty velvet pads, Tevildo leapt up onto the bar and curtly announced: I am Tifil (Bridhon) Miaugion, known to you deaf mortals as Tevildo (Vaardo) Meoita. It just may be your lucky day. I am available for hunting duty. But what actually came out was a piercing Meow!

[starkat]

As Ginger headed off to find Cook. Gwenneth took a moment to push some loose strands of black hair out of her face. I needed that. An afternoon among flowers. I will have to go out and visit Elenath shortly.

The elf looked around and realized with surprise that there were several newcomers to the inn. Now where is Aman? She stood in the middle of the room looking around for the innkeeper.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Accompanied by a heavy gust of wind, the young woman entered the Inn publicly for perhaps the first time in her life. Her weather-beaten cloak, soaked to an indistinguishable color, covered her fully. A deep hood shadowed her face, revealing naught but a pair of dancing hazel eyes. Her boots, though of the best make, had seen much wear.

She shrunk, nearly imperceptibly, against the sudden light and merriment. It was long since she had braved the predictable questions of any safe and foolish locals, but the woman was on a quest. I must find her, she thought, before I lose my nerve.

A pale hand, shaking slightly, reached out of the wraps to push the hood back. Damp curls of the darkest auburn tumbled free as she looked around unhindered. People were beginning to stare. Soon the questions will come. The way they always do.

Finding her target, her sole reason for having made this long and lonesome trip, the woman stepped slowly and gracefully toward the bar. When she spoke, her voice was soft, melodic. A conversation not yet meant for all ears.

"My dear Aman," she spoke to the Innkeeper's back, "It has been quite some time." She shivered. The Innkeeper turned quickly, recognizing the voice. The woman smiled; a smile hiding many secrets, many nights alone under the stars... many stories of her past. "Perhaps some hot cider to take the chill off?"

"Fea... nay... Caelwyn? Is it really you?" The Innkeeper looked at the mysterious guest with an unidentifiable expression.

[Primrose Bolger]

An odd sound assaulted Ginger’s ears as she stood at the kitchen’s sink. The door swung open from the Common Room and in came Miz Bunce, humming to herself in a decidedly off key manner. Cook nodded at her as she bustled to the hearth and gave a stir to the stew bubbling lazily in the big kettle. ‘Only a few more days,’ Cook said looking over at Ginger. ‘And I must say you have been quite a treasure – what with all your helping with the desserts and taking a hand in the garden.’ Resting the long wooden spoon on the pot lid, she ambled over to where Ginger was just putting the last of the flowers into the small stoneware vase. ‘Oh, now, what’s this?’ she asked, her eye taking in the riot of color and form.

‘They’re for you!’ Ginger said smiling and holding the vase out to her. When Cook began to thank her she shook her head, saying how it was Gwenneth who’d fixed the bouquet for her. Cook buried her nose in the blossoms and took a whiff of their sweet scent. ‘You thank her for me, won’t you?’ Ginger went on to say what a great help Gwenneth had been with the flower garden at the front of the Inn. And how she was wondering if there might be anything else she could turn a hand to.

Cook had just begun saying how they could use another server for supper, when a raucous sound assailed their ears. Ginger ran to the door and peeked into the common room, her eyes searching for the source. ‘It’s a cat, Miz Bunce. And he appears to sitting square in the middle of the bar, meowing.’

Ginger was sent out to see to the cat. He’d stopped his loud yowl watching her closely as she approached him. His manner was not like those farmyard tabbies she was familiar with and so she avoided calling out, ‘Here kitty, kitty!’ to him. He seemed . . . well, a bit lordly-like, she thought. And eyeing her in a thoughtful manner, too; as if sizing her up. Instead, she stopped a few paces from him and bobbed a small curtsy.

‘I’m Ginger,’ she said in a courteous tone, introducing herself. She could feel the stares of those patrons nearby at her back. It was a bit odd speaking to a cat, but he seemed to follow her words as she invited him into the kitchen for a small bowl of minced meats and perhaps a saucer of milk. ‘Or would that be a saucer of ale, Master Puss?’ she amended, wondering if that were a whiskery sneer she was seeing on his face.

She held the door open for the self possessed feline, waving him into the kitchen. ‘Mind you,’ she whispered as he drew near the door. ‘Don’t track any dirt on Cook’s floor. She’ll have your hide for it!’ Ginger stifled a giggle as the cat looked up at her. ‘Begging your pardon! Didn’t mean to offend!’ the Hobbit offered. ‘Oh! And don’t bother the old tabby that sleeps on the hearth. She’s the Inn’s ‘retired’ mouser. And Cook’s little pet.’

Ginger eyed the cat as he walked past her and into the kitchen. ‘Cook!’ she called out, pointing to the furry guest. ‘Here’s the source of the noise. Come in for a bite to eat, I think.’ She grinned at Cook as the cat made his way to the center of the room. ‘Think we might make a place for him?’ she asked. ‘There’s more work than old Tabby can handle, don’t you think?’ The old cat on the hearth raised her head for a brief moment, yawned, and went back to sleep. ‘Perhaps he can keep the mice in line down in the cellar and in the pantry.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And didn’t Mister Derufin say the mice were getting into the horse’s oats in the stable?’

Cook nodded as the lass spoke; her hands were busy setting down a generous bowl of chopped chicken from the stew pot, moistened with a bit of gravy. A small saucer of milk was set near it, as well as a small bowl of water. The two Hobbits stepped back, then, waiting for the cat’s verdict on the offered meal.